Page 31 of Duke of Storme
But even as the question drifted through his mind, Finn knew the answer. This was the moment Diana had stopped being an arrangement and started becoming something far more substantial – someone he didn’t want to lose.
He just didn’t want to acknowledge the fact that this was the moment he’d begun to care about his wife and see her as more than just a mere social necessity.
And that, he knew, was going to complicate things profoundly.
“Hold still, lass, or I’ll never get these pins where they belong.”
Diana stood on the small platform in her morning room, studying her own reflection with the critical eye of an artist examining a canvas. Mrs. MacAlpin circled her with measuring tape, the seamstress’s sharp Highland brogue filling the air as they discussed necklines and draping.
“Ye’ve got good lines,” Mrs. MacAlpin announced, stepping back to assess her canvas. “Bony shoulders, narrow waist, and ye carry yerself with more confidence than most lasses who come through these parts.”
“Thank you,” Diana said, though she wasn’t entirely certain it had been a compliment.
“Now then,” the seamstress said, stepping back to assess her work. “His Grace said ye needed somethin’ suitable for the Inverthistle ball. But he also said – and these were his exact words, mind – that it should suit ye and be yer choice.”
Diana glanced down at the cascade of midnight blue silk that pooled around her feet. The gown was unlike anything she’d ever worn – elegant without being ostentatious, with clean lines that emphasized her figure without overwhelming her delicate frame.
“The color,” Diana said, running her fingers over the rich fabric. “Perhaps it might be too bold for someone in my position?”
“And what position would that be, now?” Mrs. MacAlpin asked sharply. “Duchess of one of Scotland’s oldest families? Wife to a man who’s earned every bit of respect he commands? Or are ye still thinkin’ of yerself as the shiny wee thing the servants whisper about, instead of the duchess ye’ve become?”
The question struck Diana deeply. Was that how she still saw herself? As an outsider playing dress-up in someone else’s life?
“It is certainly beautiful,” she said honestly, “but perhaps too–”
“Too what?” Mrs. MacAlpin interrupted, her hands on her hips. “Too demure for a Duchess? Too elegant for asassenach? Or too likely to make certain Dukes forget themselves entirely?”
Heat crept up Diana’s neck. “I beg your pardon?”
“Och, don’t ye ‘beg my pardon’ me, Your Grace.” The seamstress knelt to adjust the hem with efficient fingers. “I’ve been dressin’ the women of this region for near thirty years. I know whatworks best and what doesn’t. And I know when a man’s finally noticed his wife.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Diana said, biting back a smile at the seamstress’s directness.
Mrs. MacAlpin snorted. “‘Course ye don’t. Just like ye don’t know His Grace spent half an hour yesterday describin’ the exact shade of yer eyes so I could match the trim properly.”
Diana’s heart skipped a beat. “He did?”
“Like a man enchanted, he was. ‘Brown’, says he, ‘but not just brown… like autumn leaves when the sun hits them just so… with gold threads runnin’ through.’. Quite the poet, our Duke, when he puts his mind to it.”
Diana stared at her reflection in the standing mirror, hardly recognizing the woman staring back at her. Gone was the careful, retiring creature who’d arrived at Storme Castle. In her place stood someone more confident, elegant, and beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with careful artifice and everything to do with being truly seen for the first time in her life.
“Mrs. MacAlpin,” she said quietly, “may I ask you something?”
“Ye may ask. Whether I answer depends on the question.”
“What do you think of me? Honestly. As an outsider – asassenachas you Scots say – coming into Highland society.”
The older woman was quiet for a long moment as her weathered hands smoothed the silk with reverent care.
“I think,” she said finally, “that ye’re exactly what this castle needs. Whatheneeds, though he’s too darn stubborn to admit it yet.” She looked up at Diana with eyes that held decades of wisdom. “Ye’re no’ like others who come, thinkin’ they can change everythin’ to suit their London ways. Ye listen. Ye watch. Ye try to understand us instead of just demandin’ to be understood.”
Diana felt tears prick her eyes. “Thank you. For your honesty.”
“Don’t thank me yet, lass. Thank me after ye’ve survived yer first Highland ball.” Mrs. MacAlpin stood, brushing her hands on her apron. “Now then, let’s see about accessories. His Grace mentioned ye might have some family pearls?”
“Yes,” Diana said confidently. “And, I had an idea, but I need your assistance with it.”
Diana moved toward her jewelry box with newfound purpose. She opened the carved wooden box, her fingers finding the strand of pearls her mother had given her on her wedding day.
